


Stain

by SleepsWithCoyotes



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Attempted Rape/Non-Con, M/M, Not as angsty as it sounds, smiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-07
Updated: 2019-06-07
Packaged: 2020-04-12 01:40:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19122013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SleepsWithCoyotes/pseuds/SleepsWithCoyotes
Summary: The side-effects of knocking boots with an angel.





	Stain

**Author's Note:**

> Got to thinking about biology and holiness and couldn't stop?
> 
> Old, old bookverse stuff from 2010 I'm finally getting around to pulling off my old site. Brief attempt at non-con, not between the main characters.

He's not really used to this yet--not the part where he's on his knees, or where his mouth is stretched by heat and need while someone threads trembling fingers through his hair, but the part where it's Aziraphale. He's definitely not complaining, though. It's something he's wanted and never expected to get, but Apocalypses have a way of changing everything. He just has to keep reminding himself to go slow.

Except now Aziraphale apparently wants to go _faster._

They've been kissing for weeks. Shy little sidelong glances from the angel and slow, wicked smiles from him. The mutual exchange of some very good wines and some very friendly hands on the tired old couch of the bookstore's backroom, the much nicer one in Crowley's flat. He knows Aziraphale's kisses taste of tea and something that might be butterscotch and angel, tingling with dim holiness on the tips of his tongue. The skin of Aziraphale's throat is some ridiculous combination of musty age and untouched newness: dust and clover, old books and crisp morning breezes almost chokingly sharp. There's less of the dry-dust taste the further one travels down his chest, more of the _angel_ by the time one reaches the ticklish bevel of his navel, the padded blades of his hips.

His cock tastes of ozone and the high, thin brittleness of the upper air, and Crowley's vaguely surprised to find it blood-warm in the curl of his tongue. He's not so surprised to find the angel considerate even now, petting shakily at Crowley's hair instead of fisting his hands tight and holding Crowley still. It's what he's used to, but of course Aziraphale makes him do all the work.

So he does: mouth moving hungrily, tongue coiling tight, one hand gathering the plump roundness of Aziraphale's balls while the other works at his own belt, fists his own aching hardness to _stop_ himself from coming. Just the sound of Aziraphale's moans would do it, the stuttering breaths that want to be Crowley's name, whispers of _'oh, my dear,'_ and _'don't stop.'_ Wasted breath, that last; he has no intention of stopping, not until Aziraphale gives it up, tightening his fingers in Crowley’s hair after all and rocking forward in helpless little jerks as he fills Crowley's mouth with essence of angel, raw holiness, and it burns all the way down.

He's vaguely aware of Aziraphale's horrified yelp of his name as his eyes roll back, and his last thought before unconsciousness takes him is that he probably should have seen that one coming.

No pun intended, of course.

***

"No," he says when Aziraphale stops him, eyes confused, hand hesitant on his wrist. "Like this."

They're on Crowley's bed, because it's larger and more comfortable, and Aziraphale is reclining back against the pillows, one knee shyly bent and clearly expecting Crowley's oiled hand to be heading somewhere other than the angel's cock.

"But...my dear," Aziraphale says, flushing even more now that he thinks he has to _argue._ "I thought...you'd want...?"

"I want this," Crowley says, closing his fingers around and sliding down in slick, smooth strokes. "Inside me."

"But--"

"Don't worry about it," Crowley says, shifting closer and pushing Aziraphale's knee down with his free hand, slithering into the angel's lap. "It's going to feel so good."

"Not for long," Aziraphale says miserably, but Crowley just grins.

"I'm tough," he says. "I can take it."

They've talked about it--argued about it, if he's honest--but Crowley's never more stubborn than when he knows he's right. He's a demon; too _much_ holiness might very well kill him, but it's not going to change what he is.

What his demonic essence might do to an angel, though, is something he doesn't care to find out.

There's something scared and a little vulnerable in Aziraphale's stare as Crowley positions himself, sinks down with a hiss and half-closed eyes, and that isn't what he wants to see there at all. He leans forward a bit, bracing his knees wider and planting his hands on Aziraphale's shoulders, and makes no attempt to hide what it does to him to be filled with the angel like this. "Nnn...that's it. Just let me...."

"Crowley," Aziraphale begins, nervous hands settling on his hips, only by then, Crowley's started to move.

He's in no particular hurry, but he's not overly cautious, either; that would just worry the angel, and it isn't what he wants, anyway. What he wants is the exact pace he sets, never more grateful that he's only human- _shaped,_ that his spine was practically built for this. He rides the angel hard, bending down to kiss Aziraphale breathless before sitting up again, leaning back, finding just the right angle so that he's already seeing sparks even before the angel starts to get close, little jolts of holiness prickling up his spine.

"Oh--"

"Almost there, angel...."

"Crowley--"

When Aziraphale comes, it's like a divine smiting with a whiskey chaser: cold, scouring light wrapped up in a fuzzy warmth that spreads low and mellow in the pit of his stomach while the rest of him is still jerking taut. He feels his teeth click together as his head snaps back, feels the scream he won't voice choke the air from his throat, the light searing through him somewhere between agony and the sheer, uncomfortable satisfaction of tearing off a scab or scratching at skin already rubbed raw. And he's coming, untouched, careful to bury his sudden claws in the sheets and not Aziraphale as he slicks the angel's chest in shuddering pulses.

There are hands to catch him when he slumps forward, and though he's too tired to do more than purr at Aziraphale at first, he's not so tired he doesn't notice the fingers that creep oh-so-casually between them, coming up wet and heading for the angel's mouth.

"Don't even think about it," he rasps fondly, catching Aziraphale's wrist and licking his fingers clean, making his way down the angel's body for good measure before Aziraphale can argue. He's fine, really--he's getting used to the regular infusions of pure, uncut angel--but he isn't about to take that sort of chance with Aziraphale.

He wishes Aziraphale wouldn't look so conflicted, though, like he wants to praise Crowley for this unexpected streak of selflessness but can't quite bring himself to do it. It's no use _telling_ the angel he doesn't mind; all he can do is pin Aziraphale down when he's done and make himself at home, proving every way he knows how that he's right where he wants to be.

***

It doesn't occur to him that Aziraphale's not the only one who ought to worry about what might be bleeding over between them until he runs into a coworker in a private gentleman's club he's been keeping an eye on, more because the owner's been improving the wine list than because of the direction the games in the rooms upstairs have been taking. There isn't much that humans can do to one another that he hasn't already seen, and he's given up on trying to convince them that no amount of ropes or candles is going to be sinful in itself. He supposes he ought to give them points for effort, which is more than his compatriot can say; Agares isn't even _trying,_ wearing a body that would look right at home wearing a grimy old mack and no trousers, his crocodile grin the same Above as Below.

Crowley makes eye contact because it's too dangerous not to, expects the other demon to turn away with a sneer of contempt to cover whatever orders might be keeping the home crowd away--and Crowley has to trust that there are, in fact, orders to this effect, that Adam's been as good as his word about 'fixing' things.

He doesn't expect to see yellow eyes narrow, for Agares to pause on his way to a table in the corner to make his way over to Crowley's. Only the fact that Agares is a Duke of Hell keeps Crowley from flashing a smile and beating a swift retreat; he can't expect an insult like that to pass, and showing fear would just encourage the bastard.

"Well, well," says Agares, sitting down across from him. "Crowley. So you're still here."

He might mean 'in London.' He might just as well mean 'on Earth,' or even 'not extinct.'

"It's a dirty job," Crowley says with a shrug, boldly leaving off every honorific, just to see what Agares will do.

The duke watches him for a moment, grin half-puzzled, like he's expecting there to be some kind of joke, but what he says at last is, "What have you been getting up to? You reek of angel."

He wants to sputter, but every instinct towards self-preservation he's got snaps his jaw closed pre-gape, and he can practically feel the lenses of his shades going more opaque. It's second-nature to throw off a cocky smirk, and the words--thank Whoever--are right there when he needs them: "Oh, you know. Just a spot of temptation. I like to keep my hand in."

"Trying to worm your way back into our Lord's bad graces?" Agares hazards with a low chuckle, one Crowley doesn't like at all. Though to be fair, he doubts there's much that would amuse a Duke of Hell that he would like, especially when it concerns him personally.

"Do you think I've got a chance?" Crowley asks, playing the game that's expected of him, just long enough to get him out of here in one piece.

Agares' grin goes wide, _too_ wide--a human couldn't manage it, not without some highly suspect experimental surgery, and Crowley hopes desperately that no one's looking their way. "Smelling like that," the duke growls, "you just might have a shot."

He gets the feeling Agares is two beats away from offering to put in a good word for him, _if,_ and he rises as smoothly as he can manage, smirking for all he's worth. "Then I guess I'd better get back to work. It was great running into you--you've been an inspiration, Your Grace. Maybe I'll see you around sometime, hey?"

"I'll be looking for you," Agares promises, clearly amused, and Crowley tries his best to take that as a social pleasantry and not the blatant threat it is.

He's never realized just how many demons there are hanging about London at any one time until he suddenly becomes worth noticing for the first time in his existence. Or maybe the second, though he's pretty sure his Boss' reaction to the Tyre Iron Incident would have been to point and laugh. They're not all dukes and presidents, at least, not by a long shot. It's mostly small fry--imps, incubi, a dybbuk he runs into outside the kosher place near the bookstore--but he's no longer off their radar, and it shows.

"Why, _Crawly,_ " a husky voice purrs in his ear while he's waiting for the barista at his favorite café to finish making his coffee--mocha with a shot of vanilla and a dusting of cinnamon, extra-hot no whip--and he shudders despite himself at the slender arm that wraps familiarly around him, the long-nailed hand that slides down his chest.

"Crowley," he corrects through a smile of gritted teeth. The effort it takes to not make _the_ effort is astounding.

"Mm." He can just see a mane of chocolate curls from the corner of his eye, a sultry pout to go with the succubus' kittenish sigh of disappointment. "And here I was hoping you'd live down to your name for me."

"Sorry," he says, ignoring the woman-shaped being at his back and the wide-eyed barista who hands him his coffee. "I think you have the wrong person."

Her low, purring chuckle turns every head in the place: the cluster of suits showing off their briefcases; the blushing painter from the artists' co-op and the musician boyfriend who's genuinely potty for her, half her age; the two not-so-startled university girls and the very surprised old man who runs the newsstand down the block, who's never looked twice at women since he got out of public school. "Oh?" she says, nearly as amused as Agares had been, for what sounds like nearly the same reason. "Are you sure I can't convince you otherwise?"

"Very," he says and leaves without looking back, and somehow manages to not look like he's running. Or so he tells himself.

Walking the streets becomes an obstacle course to be run, but he can't just drive around aimlessly and hope to get anything done, and it's no good hiding in his flat. The neighbors have already complained about the weird visitors he gets at all hours, knocking for ages until someone sticks their head into the hall and tells them he's not in. The only safe place is the bookshop, and he'd swear the others are waiting for him to come out, because the looks he gets later are nearly enough to make even him blush.

He isn't going to say a word to Aziraphale, because the whole thing is just dead embarrassing. If it's what he thinks it is, he's essentially gone and made himself the demonic equivalent of catnip: just holy enough to be tempting without being toxic, and if the holiness isn't _his,_ well, all the better. What flusters him is that he feels like a cheating husband, worrying constantly that he'll give himself away, when it isn't even his idea, isn't anything he wants.

Well. He wants _Aziraphale,_ yes, so he'll take the rest of it if he has to, but he's uncomfortably certain that something is going to have to give.

The incubus that finally corners him has a startlingly average face, pure boy-next-door, but Crowley supposes it takes all kinds. There's nothing average about the body under the plain T-shirt and jeans, and that's not including what's snugged up against his hip as he's flattened to the wall in the back of an alley. In a purely physical battle, the other demon could probably mop the floor with him, built like a rugby player with enough muscle left over to make a good start on a matching set. Crowley knows at a glance that he won't be getting away without a dirty trick or two, but the nice thing about incubi is that they tend to think from the same place some mortals do.

"Nn...you _are_ ripe with it," the incubus says with a grin, hot and hungry, and leans down to drag a slow, wet lick along the side of Crowley's throat. "Just how much angel spunk have you been knocking back, then?"

"Enough to be pickier in my tastes than _this,_ " Crowley says, and while the idiot's still puzzling that over, Crowley lets him have it, unloads a blast of pure infernal force concentrated in the smallest area possible--not exactly quantum, but a little like setting off a bomb contained in a space the size of the Bentley. It ought to have discorporated the other demon, or at least knocked him on his arse long enough for Crowley to get away, but it turns out all that extra muscle has a purpose after all: it makes for a handy shock absorber.

"You _bitch,_ " the incubus snarls as his shredded flesh knits back together, and if he looks a little leaner now that he's had to spackle over the holes, he doesn't look a whit less impressive. Maybe it's because he's dropped the wholesome face he was wearing before, and what's showing through now isn't pretty.

The _not_ so nice thing about incubi is that they tend to fight from the same place they think from.

Crowley tastes blood when his head slams into the wall at his back, bricks rough under his shoulders and the back of his skull. The hand wrapped around his neck makes him glad he doesn't need to breathe, and then he's gagging on the taste of incubus, the thick tongue that fills his mouth and then his throat. He bites, hears a growl that makes him flinch--only an incubus would take that as a _tease_ \--and the claws anchoring his right hip flex, sinking into flesh as the bastard rocks against him, huge cock _meant_ to be every bit as terrifying as it is.

He's so used to Aziraphale's aura that he hardly notices it anymore, probably wouldn't notice it now if that warm, cheery glow wasn't burning hotter, brighter, spiking not by levels but by whole orders of magnitude. It's not his frumpy antique book dealer standing at the head of the alley but an angel of THE LORD, and Crowley hasn't seen that look in Aziraphale's eyes in at least three thousand years.

_"Demon,"_ Aziraphale says, and Crowley wants to sink right into the ground, wants to _explain,_ but Aziraphale isn't looking at him. He's not sure Aziraphale sees him at all. There's nothing in those cool blue eyes but divine fury, and the incubus standing between Aziraphale and Crowley freezes in place after whipping stupidly around to snarl at the interruption. The idiot pisses himself--Crowley can smell it--when Aziraphale lifts his hand toward Heaven, and there's no time for either demon to dive for cover or stammer out a plea for forgiveness.

What boils down out of the thin overcast above is too bright to look at, comes with a howl of burning air incongruously pure and sweet, like struck crystal or the low moan of silver slicing the air. It's like the feeling of Aziraphale filling him up, only he's drowning in it instead, searing light as heavy as honey on his skin, in his lungs when he draws a helpless, choking gasp. He slumps down the wall as his knees give out in the first instant, but though he hears a discordant shriek, sees a cloud of black motes rise up through the light where the other demon had been writhing just seconds before, all he feels is that maddening prickle that's just to the enjoyable side of outright agony. It hurts--he's breathless with it--but he's just as afraid he'll do something Heaven won't be able to ignore, that if the light doesn't kill him, Michael himself will come down to finish him off for the insult of coming in his pants.

When the light fades, there's car alarms going off for blocks in every direction, startled conversations buzzing worryingly close, but it's just him and Aziraphale in the alley. Crowley doesn't even try to stand, and it's not because his side is on fire where the incubus clawed him, a constant trickle of blood soaking into his suit. The eyes he's staring into are still cold, like a mile of empty air, but he knows his Aziraphale is back when they go wide and brittle with horror in the space of a heartbeat.

"Oh-- _Crowley!"_

He wants to say something sly to that, something about how Aziraphale probably shouldn't be taking _his_ name in vain either, but even he needs breath to joke, and he's sort of forgotten how to. Breathe, that is.

It doesn't matter, though, because Aziraphale reaches his side in instants and falls to his knees, hands hovering over Crowley like he doesn't know where to touch. He probably expects Crowley to be a blistered, festering mess beneath his suit, so Crowley reaches out, grabs one of Aziraphale's hands, and holds on tight.

"'S all right," he says, a little more tiredly than he means to sound, and Aziraphale doesn't look like he believes him anyway. "Bastard ruined my suit, but that's all."

"Crowley." There's a hitch in the angel's voice, stark apology in his eyes. "I couldn't have missed you," he says, and it's not an explanation or an excuse; it's Aziraphale telling him to drop the bullshit and not even bother with that ridiculous lie, because the angel won't buy it.

"You didn't have to," he says instead, pulling Aziraphale's hand to his chest, and though the angel flinches just before his knuckles brush Crowley's shirt, something like wonder crosses his face at feeling firm, whole flesh beneath. "Told you. I can take anything you can dish out."

Aziraphale looks stricken again over that, but Crowley knows how it is. It was a demon that had first coined the phrase 'seeing red,' though he'd bet Aziraphale had been seeing white at the time. It happens to everyone eventually.

"I--Crowley--I never meant...."

"I know. It's all right," he says again, and though he makes a face while doing it, he adds, "honest."

He's never objected to Aziraphale's kisses, and he's not about to start now, but he does plan on advancing the idea that they should maybe get out of this alleyway sometime very soon. Not that he has any particular aversion to back alleys--he's done some of his best work there--but he doesn't particularly want to be around to explain divine retribution to a bunch of coppers from the Met.

They'd had enough trouble with a flaming Bentley, and rewritten memories can only take you so far.

***

He gets the notice a few days later, coming home after seeing to it that a major phone company in America will lose the court battle over whether it has a monopoly on the industry or not. It'll be broken up, a victory for free trade and the hundreds of local businesses that couldn't get their foot in the door before, and every single one of those companies will be starting junk flyer and telemarketing campaigns before the ink's dry on the settlement papers. It's a good day's work if he does say so himself, even if he's doing it for no one's satisfaction but his own. Adam might have _said_ there oughtn't be any more messing about, but after six thousand years, he thinks he's earned a little free will of his own. And anyway, the angel would get bored without any interesting wiles to thwart.

The scroll is sitting where his glass-topped coffee table used to be, one crisp, white sheet of parchment tied with a neat black ribbon, untouched atop a slick sheet of transparent slag and metal. It's cool to the touch when he gingerly picks it up, but he still wishes he'd put on gloves first when he sees the _'Let It Hereby Be Known'_ at the top. Once he's _touched_ the thing, there's no backing out, pretending the message has gone awry.

After he reads it once, he has to read it through again, then a third and fourth time as he sits down heavily on the slightly-singed couch. Numbed by shock, he stares as the words refuse to blur and reform, still spelling out the same message he hadn't believed the first time around.

They've...given him to the angel.

Well, all right. Technically they've _officially_ recognized Aziraphale's claim on him as consort and master, said claim being pursued and proven through the traditional arena of personal combat and a splendid show of force, such that....

He reads it through a fifth time, but it's the standard form, every 'I' dotted, every 'T' smudged. It's the same notice that goes out every time two demons decide to join forces or Below decides it doesn't want the headache of half the Dark Council fighting over a particularly ripe succubus--or a particularly rank incubus. In a sense, it makes him Aziraphale's property, but that doesn't particularly trouble him. They'll have to kill the angel to take him from Aziraphale after this, and he _knows_ there's orders nixing _that._

He's essentially been made untouchable, and he's not sure what he has to thank for that...but he can guess.

Aziraphale is wide-eyed and panicked when he comes tearing into Crowley's flat just moments later, slamming the door shut and leaning back against it like he expects someone to be along any moment to break it down. Except for the white-rimmed eyes, he looks like the same old angel, but Crowley can taste the difference in Aziraphale's aura from where he sits, the faint red and black flickers like banked coals at the heart of all that light. It's still Aziraphale--still his angel--as Aziraphale likes to remind him at every opportunity.

Apparently demons aren't the only ones who can't be changed at their cores by...well. He'll leave the interpretation of it to Aziraphale.

"What's wrong?" he rouses himself to ask. If the notice has already gone out, Aziraphale shouldn't have had to defend his property again, though they might need to be careful for a week or two. Just until the clock runs down on plausible deniability.

Aziraphale does a decent impression of a fish--much better than his Brando, that's for certain--and gives him a look that's equal parts guilty and disturbed. "Gabriel," the angel manages.

"Gabriel?" Somehow he thinks he should have seen _this_ one coming as well.

"I...we ran into each...and I'm sure...just being _friendly,_ but...."

Crowley narrows his eyes, swallows a growl. "So," he says in a low, dangerous voice he barely recognizes himself, though it makes Aziraphale shiver in ways he quite approves of as he rises from the couch, a slink already in his stride. "Just what do I have to do to stake a claim on what's mine?"

Aziraphale seems to have lost his voice again, but Crowley's not worried. He'll get it out of the angel one way or another.

And he tries not to think of collars, or marking, because he doubts Heaven has changed _that_ much since he left home, but maybe Aziraphale would still be willing, just between the two of them.


End file.
